


Lives in Your Shape

by CaesarVulpes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Brief description of skin infections, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-typical apocalypse, Captivity, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, M/M, Martin's Equipment is also vague so he could be trans too if you like, Masturbation, Self-Harm, Sexual Fantasy, Slight desolation!Tim, Trans Jon, Trans Male Character, Wedding, also an AU where Elias is Jon's dad and way fewer people are evil!!!, brief fatphobia, demisexual Peter Lukas, every jon i write is trans and there's nothing anyone can do to stop me, he’s getting better tho, in chapter 11, martin has Gay Feelings about Jon's gnc wardrobe, mlm/wlw solidarity, more specific tags for every chapter, slight body horror, smut in chapter 3, spoilers for episode 160
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 15:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 13,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaesarVulpes/pseuds/CaesarVulpes
Summary: A series of disjointed drabbles and AUs. Mostly, if not all, Jonmartin centric. Detailed CWs in the end notes of every chapter.Updates:Chapter 16: Jon n Daisy EmotionsChapter 17: a baking mishap at the safehouseChapter 18: Jon’s parents (Elias & Peter) and the aftermath of Mister SpiderChapter 19: Jon/Gerry texts
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 264
Kudos: 866





	1. The Leitner Home part I: Archive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where Leitner's dumb library has mostly been repurposed into helping Avatars of various powers out of bad situations, be they mundane or supernatural. Mostly an excuse for angst/hurt/comfort and monsterjon tbh

Working for the Library has Martin venturing into far more cells and basements than he’s strictly comfortable with. Tim and Sasha don’t much like it either, but the work needs doing. The Library of Jurgen Leitner once housed almost a thousand unspeakably dangerous tomes, and still contains more than a few, but in the last few decades the title of Librarian has rather broadened. The Library is now known by another name. The Leitner Home. A place for the broken toys of dread powers to rest, and heal, and change what they can.

The work needs doing, and Martin is happy to do it.

Sometimes. When the job doesn’t involve the messes Jonah fucking Magnus leaves behind. A dim cell in a dirty basement, smelling of stale sweat and sickness and damp.

A rail-thin, terribly scarred hand extends cautiously from between the bars. Brushes its fingertips delicately against the tip of Martin’s boot and snaps back inside when Tim opens the door; he hears it scuttle back into the corner and watches Sasha follow. There’s a strange muffled noise like a whimper, then an uncomfortably wet one, and then it speaks with a hoarse, wavering voice.

“m-Master? Please, I'm sorry.” The voice from the cell is soft, plaintive. At once fearful and hopeful. Given the state of the rest of Jonah Magnus’ ‘projects’, Martin isn’t surprised. Poor thing probably hasn’t seen anyone else in years.

“Don’t be afraid,” Tim says softly, but Martin can hear the tension, “We’re here to help.”

Sasha speaks from inside. Calls out to Martin.

“Can you come here, please?”

Tim comes out to take over his watch with a stormy expression. Without a word he drops something in Martin’s hands.

It looks like a gag. A bit, like for a horse, with a long piece he assumes is meant to sit against the tongue. Both pieces are wickedly barbed and crusted with blood. He drops it, feeling sick.

“Remember Magnus’ notes,” Tim murmurs. “It’s weak now but don’t let your guard down. Basically a cornered animal.”

‘It’, because the only thing its “master” ever calls it is The Archive. It, because there's no telling if there's anything resembling a person left in that body, and because Tim has been burned before.

It looks for all the world like a scrawny desi man dressed in black rags. Small, with graying hair hanging to the shoulders in greasy clumps. Martin looks down at its bare feet, delicate and dirty and tucked to the side, and sees the heavy shackles around its skinny ankles. They look infected, a suspicion supplemented by the sheen of sweat on the Archive’s gray-tinged skin.

“Hullo,” Martin says, quiet and gentle as he can as he takes a knee. “I’m going to have a look at you, if that’s alright? I’m a Librarian.”

They’ve all learned not to give their names until they’re sure it’s safe.

The Archive raises his head. It—_he_, is blindfolded with a length of satiny black cloth embroidered with the closed eye of the People’s Church. As Martin gets closer, he sees that it’s stitched directly into the skin at his temples. It looks to have been there so long that it’s completely healed over. Drastic measures to blind a conduit for the Eye, both mundane and supernatural. Underneath, though, Martin can see the frantic movements of intact eyes. There’s a strange pattern of pitted scars along one side of its face. Scars _everywhere_.

“First, I’d like to take that blindfold off you.”

The Archive recoils, presses back against the wall, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“He—my Master will be angry,” he whimpers, pressing his hands over the blindfold. “I’m already being punished.”

“Why are you being punished?”

The Archive’s hands shake.

“I broke a rule. I Asked without permission.” He begins wringing his hands, shrinking into himself, hiding behind his long, dirty hair. “I—I didn’t _mean_—I was so hungry.”

He begins to breathe much too fast, tiny frame shaking.

“I was so hungry and he wouldn’t bring me any more stories. And then he brought someone—a guest, he said, and I didn’t mean to Ask, I only meant to greet him like my Master taught me. I was just so_ hungry_.”

He buries his face in his hands, shuddering.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Martin says. He’s quite proud of how level he keeps his voice. It’s more than unfair. The cell, the cold, that awful gag. It’s just open cruelty. “He must have known you needed to feed.”

“I’m a _monster_,” the Archive says. “The rules are there to protect people.”

He touches the blindfold again.

“I have to keep it on. It stops me Seeing.” He touches the raw, bloody corners of his mouth. “You should put the gag back. I’m not safe to be around.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Martin says firm as he can without being stern. “I’ll be taking the shackles off, and then me and my friends are going to get you out of here, alright?”

He gentles his voice, like calming an animal.

“i-I can’t, my Master--”

“Can’t hurt you. I promise.” The Archive faces him with open desperation. “Do you trust me?”

He watches the grey-brown throat bob as the Archive swallows hard. That awful, sickly tinge tells Martin just how long it's been since that skin has seen sunlight.

“o-Okay.”

“Thank you,” Martin says. “You’ll like my friends, promise.” He beckons them back into the cell. The Archive sniffs the air, inches slowly towards them.

“Distortion…S-soft-Hands?” He says it like a name. Martin supposes he’s had to think of them somehow. Filing them, like any good Archive.

“That’s Sasha.” Martin tells him.

“Would you like to touch?” She asks. He nods, and Martin guides his shaking hand into hers with a tug on his ragged sleeve. He gasps, softly, traces her palm with the very tips of his fingers. Reverent and so_ achingly_ delicate.

“Sasha,” he repeats.

After a moment, he withdraws and turns his head in Tim’s general direction.

“Stranger. Smoke—Desolation?” He goes a little pink, mumbles. “Pretty Voice.”

“Is that me?” Tim asks. He’s smiling. It looks strained, but less than usual. The Archive nods shyly. “Thank you. I’m Tim.”

“Tim,” the Archive murmurs.

Martin touches his shoulder giving him plenty of warning with gentle brushes of contact, then his neck, then his face. The Archive stays very still.

“It’s me.” The Archive sucks in a pained breath, noses into his hand like a cat. Breathes deep and shivers.

“Oh,” he whispers, with a shuddering gasp. Voice growing thick, as though what he senses overwhelms him. “_Lonely_.”

“Martin.”

“_Martin,_” he repeats. Holds Martin’s hand in both of his, holds it against his face as he calms. “Martin. Martin.”

Tim gets to work on the shackles—the Archive gasps, wriggles as the metal shifts against raw, no doubt aching sores. Martin shushes him softly and he settles, whining.

“It’s alright, I know it hurts. Just for a little while, then we’ll be able to make it better.”

The Archive whimpers all through Tim’s careful lockpicking, clinging to Martin’s hands. Sasha talks him through Tim’s process, warns him when another shift is coming, gives him another hand to cling to when Tim is finally able to open the cuffs, peeling away from the crusted-over sores they’re stuck to. He cries out, but doesn’t thrash. His grip is distressingly weak.

“You did so well,” Sasha says. “You were very brave.” The Archive whimpers something. Martin feels tears through the thin blindfold.

“What should we call you?” He makes a pained, inquisitive noise as Martin gathers him into his arms, prepares to lift him.

“Archive?” he says, but he sounds neither sure nor happy.

“how about your name. Do you remember your name?”

Martin wraps him in his coat and lifts him bridal-style, cradled close against his body. Fever-hot, shaking. Martin kicks the awful gag aside on his way out of the cell.

“Jon,” the Archive whispers, as though this, too, is against the rules.

Martin holds him just a little tighter. Closer.

“Jon. It suits you.” He smiles, because although the Archive, Jon, can’t see it, he’ll be able to hear it in his voice. He’s had a lot of experience.

“Well, Jon. Let’s get you out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: captivity, emotional and physical abuse, slight non-graphic body horror in a blindfold having been sewn directly to a person's skin, and brief slightly-graphic description of infection from being chained up for extended periods of time.


	2. It's the End of the World as We Know It (And Kirby's Fucking Pissed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shameless angst/hcs for what immediately follows MAG 160

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: THIS BITCH HAS ART NOW (https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/188794998352/read-a-fic-where-jon-got-physically-messed-up-when ) thanks to creatrixanimi for their bomb shit

Jon looks up at the roiling sky, trembling in his arms, and Martin feels fear and despair claw for dominance. Great streaks of Jon’s hair have gone stark white, his eyes are crimson with burst vessels and his nose is still bleeding, a terrifyingly broad stream of it drying down his mouth and chin and throat. There are deep scratches perilously close to Jon’s eyes and blood under his nails.

“It’s all been my fault,” Jon says in that awful, hysterical giggle. “Everything that’s happened to us has been because of me. Because I didn’t have the decency to _die_ when I had the chance.”

Tears slip pink-tinged from his wide eyes, even as his trembling mouth is twisted into a manic grin. He laughs, and laughs and laughs until he is sobbing. Martin holds him closer. He doesn’t know what else to _do_. Oh, god, what are any of them going to _do?_ He wishes, for a sick, guilty moment, that he’d stayed numb and Lonely. That soft ache was so much easier than the way his heart is breaking now. As though a great weight is crushing it slowly with steady, unbearable pressure.

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon sobs, face mashed into Martin’s jumper, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop. I tried to stop. He—he knew I’d have to say it, all of it.” He gasps, hiccups miserably.

“What _happened?_”

Jon points a shaking finger at the statement lying open on the table. Martin skims it and now anger crests in him. _Rage._ That anyone would dare use Jon like this. Use them _all_ like this.

“If I were stronger, o-or smarter I could have—I should have stopped. I should have _stopped_.”

“Jon, no–Look what it _did_ to you.” Some of it is almost illegible for the increasing spatters of Jon’s blood, hemorrhaging as he fought the statement. So much blood. One of Jon’s pupils is blown much too wide. One of Jon’s ears is sluggishly dripping blood. Under the flow from his nose, Martin can see ragged gouges at his lips and throat where he tried to claw himself out of the compulsion. “You could have _died_.”

“I _should_ have died.”

_No._

He casts the false statement aside, takes Jon’s face in his hands.

“Look at me. _Look at me_, Jon.”

Jon’s beautiful eyes are void of fire. Like the Jon he knew was shattered and this hopeless, forsaken man is what’s left.

“This is. Jonah’s. Fault. _All _of it. He used us.”

He holds Jon until the flow from his nose is more snot than blood, until his tears finally run clear. Hides his own in Jon’s hair. After everything they’ve been through, this isn’t _fair._

“I could _feel_ him,” Jon sobs. He sounds horrified. Violated. “I—oh _god_, I felt him using me. I could feel when he wrote it, I can still taste it in my _mouth_.”

Anger is so much more productive than fear, just now. Anger for the world, for the man he loves, for his friends. For himself. So Martin K Blackwood stops being afraid and starts being _furious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: blood, injury, potential/implied brain injury, self-harm


	3. And I Ached (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was just going to write about my wardrobe hcs and ended up with 570 words of horny pining and Martin doing a masturbate.

Martin's not sure what it is about the skirt that gets him.

It's not dirty or forbidden or any such nonsense, there's nothing wrong with Jon wearing a skirt, so it can't be the allure of the perverse. It's not especially revealing or salacious, hitting Jon at just about mid-calf. It's not even that unusual, especially when it's hot out, so it can't be novelty.

There's just something about Jon in that long, pleated black skirt that _does_ something unprofessional to him. The way it moves when he walks, pools around him when he crouches for something out of a low cabinet. The peek of slender calves, dainty ankles, the faint sheen of clinging black nylons.

The idea of rucking it up to Jon's hips, of pushing it up slowly to see if Jon wears tights or stockings. Sometimes Martin has to excuse himself when one of those intrusive images floats into his head--the image of kissing those delicate ankles, sliding his hands up, up, until he meets a shocking stretch of uncovered skin, the silky strap of _suspenders_. 

Of going to his knees under Jon's desk and teasing him with mouth and tongue and teeth until the pleasure shakes him apart. (He's a little guilty, still, about how he found out that Jon is trans. Walking in on him giving himself his T injection in the archive's cramped bathroom wasn't the best way, especially given how dry Martin's mouth had gone at that shockingly exposed strip of brown skin, but Jon had explicitly told him he didn't mind so long as Martin keeps it to himself. )

He wonders, extra guiltily, if Jon would mind _now_, when he's thinking about what Jon might look like down there. Is it a little gash or a fat, plush mound? Well-groomed or slightly unkempt? What does he smell like, _taste_ like? How would he sound, if Martin slipped a finger into him?

Martin bites his lip against a moan, works his hand faster. Imagines spreading him gently, seeing the shocking pink of his insides. Dipping his tongue in to taste him, getting slick all over his mouth and cheeks and chin.

_Martin,_ the Jon in his head says, because that's what he says most in Martin's fantasies. _Martin,_ breathy and soft. _Martin,_ choked and desperate. _Martin,_ whiny and plaintive. _Martin, _harsh and demanding.

Other times it's _Be good, Martin,_ and _you like that, don't you, Martin? _and _ask me nicely, Martin._

Imagining Jon hiking up that skirt and pushing Martin onto his desk. In his head, as he works fingers into himself and tries not to make a mess of his cot, he says _please, Jon, please fuck me, I need it, I'm yours.  
_

(He used to have a toy just for this, but he could hardly ask Sasha to grab it with the bundle of toiletries she'd brought from his flat. He pictures it anyway, sleek and black, jutting from under Jon's skirt.)

Bites his lip almost bloody as the Jon in his mind ranges over him and fucks him with rough, brutal strokes. Shirt partially undone to show the delicate wing of his collarbone, dark hair unkempt under Martin's fingers.

_Harder, more, please Jon, please Jon. _And _come,__ Martin, _sampled shamefully from a conversation months ago and taken wildly out of context. Layered with breathlessness and the slap of skin on skin, the feeling of hot nylon against the backs of his thighs.

Martin comes, whimpering, into his hand, and tries not to feel completely disgusted with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: sexual content, masturbation, sexual fantasy, accidental discovery of a person being trans


	4. The Leitner Home part II: Esmentiras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 1  
(remember how I said these were disjointed unrelated fics i fucken lied dog this is a Thing now)

Jon trembles more and more fiercely with each step up from the basement. Clings to Martin’s jumper, body coiled tight as though ready to bolt. As they emerge, Tim breaks off to clear the path ahead and Sasha steps back to cover their rear. A well-practiced formation. Never out of each other’s sight. By the time they’re halfway to the exit, Jon’s knuckles are white.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” Martin asks softly.

“I...I’m scared,” Jon whispers. “He could catch us.”

Martin rubs soothing circles on his back but looks questioningly back at Sasha. She shrugs. Martin’s quite good at talking his way around tricky things.

“He’s not coming back any time soon. He’s...occupied. We know we’ve got plenty of time to get you out of here.”

They’re not sure how Jon will react to knowing that Jonah—or at least his current host body—is in prison. He might break down or lash out. It’s hard to tell through the heavy conditioning and abuse he’s endured. The potential for Stockholm Syndrome, they’ve learned, is not exclusive to humans. Not by a long shot.

Jon breathes deep when they step out. Even the London funk must feel fresh and clean after that awful basement. He shudders, face tipped back into a beam of weak September sunlight. He looks even worse in the light, gaunt and grubby and so very, very sick. Much too young for the silver and steel gray in his hair and stubbly beard. But, Sasha reminds herself, he’s going to get better. They’re going to help him. 

“Wait.”

Martin, ever dutiful, pauses.

“Wait, I...” Jon sniffs the air like a cat, and something frantic settles over his face.

“Esmentiras?”

He slips out of Martin’s arms like an eel and scrambles, wobbly on his weak legs, toward the van.

Which he can’t actually see, so he’s following something _else_. Something he smells. Something he senses.

“Jon, wait!” Martin cries. Sasha pushes past him. She’s quicker than him and the Archive is going to hurt himself.

“_Esmentiras!” _Jon says, sounding shocked and desperate, about the time Sasha notices the yellow door in the _side of their bloody van, _and Michael is _never_ this overt. Something’s wrong.

The door slams open. Sasha has never seen that before either. For a moment she’s scared that there’s yet _another_ Distortion vying for dominance in there, but no. There stands Michael, with such a human, emotional look on its face that Sasha stops dead and almost falls over when Martin walks into her.

Jon barrels right into it, burying his face in its chest (? It is very hard to tell from a distance) with a sound that could easily be grief or joy. It wraps its warped arms around him at once, almost completely engulfing him in bone blades and impossible angles.

“Archive,” it purrs, sounding at once like a million smug cats and like chainsaws catching on railroad ties and like nothing that ever existed. And like a man sagging with relief, releasing a long held breath.

Jon sounds like he’s crying, voice choked and muffled and scattered by his proximity to the Door.

“_Michael,” _he wails. Reaches his dirty, skinny hands up to its face—it has to bend quite a bit and none of it happens in the right places—and traces angles Sasha’s eyes can’t follow, frantic, ecstatic. “He told me you were _gone. _I _saw_ you un-become.”

The entity that used to be Michael Shelley smiles with too many (and not enough) teeth, its hair squirming happily into denser curls.

“That is what you saw, yes,” Michael concedes.

“But,” Jon says, “But Helen—”

“Is also me. We are, mm.” Michael looks thoughtful, tilts its head. And tilts and tilts and tilts.

“We are me, together.”

“But—”

Michael makes a shushing noise at once like wind in grass and rattling dice.

"Later, Archive.”

He nods, and Michael wipes at his wet cheeks with a single finger. Sasha can’t help but notice that though his hands scrape deep gouges into the van’s paint, the Archive is left without a scratch. Martin rushes in to fuss, to bundle him back into his arms with pink cheeks.

“Hello, Librarians. It has been some time.”

“Hello, Michael.” Martin gives him a tired, strained look. “You know you weren’t supposed to come. Any one of Magnus’ weird artifacts could react really badly with you.”

Michael shrugs. Sasha’s eyes water.

“I wanted to see him, and he me. Are you _quite_ sure you don’t want a door?”

“You know Jurgen doesn’t like them in the Library.”

Sasha jerks her thumb at Tim. “And this one whines if he doesn’t get to drive the van.”

Tim plants a hand on his chest, gasps dramatically.

“You wound me. We both know I’ll do _much_ worse than _whine_.”

Michael giggles. It’s nice to be able to hear it without her head hurting. He really is getting better.

“I also thought that my presence might, mm. _Soothe_ the Archive. A deeply novel experience.”

He’s right; the little man really does look more relaxed. Now, Sasha supposes, that he knows he can trust them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of abuse and Stockholm Syndrome, Michael-typical light unreality


	5. Little Lion Man (or Feral Raccoon Man)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon being Feral (chaotic good flavor) and Martin being Gay

Jon is shouting. Properly shouting. People all around the canteen are staring. Martin can’t tell what he’s saying through the roaring of blood in his ears.

Because Jon isn’t shouting at him. Jon is shouting at a blandly handsome man from Accounts (Adam, Martin thinks he's called), poking a slender finger into his chest—reaching up to do it, because Adam from Accounts is six feet tall and Jon is _tiny—_and veering wildly between shouting and that dangerous, murderous hiss Martin knows so well.

For once Jon isn’t shouting at him. Jon is shouting  _for_ him. 

Martin barely remembers what was said. Something about _the hot Archives crew, plus __the porky one _and mean chuckling and whether he was leaving any food for the rest of the Institute and Martin barely had time to feel like _pure shit_ before Jon was rounding on him with bright eyes.

That’s the thing about Jon. He’s fairly rude to Martin (Martin’s gay, not stupid, he knows Jon’s been an ass), casting aspersions on his competence, his intelligence, his taste in poetry, but Martin is realizing he’s never,  _ever,_ said anything about his appearance. 

Jon’s wound down from shouting and into brittle enunciation and bared teeth. Martin  hears things like  _absolute cretin_ and  _unbelievable _ _asshole _ and  _complete waste of skin _ but also things like  _unprofessional _ and  _HR department_ and even  _talk to him like that again, see what fucking happens you mediocre shitheel._ Adam from Accounts looks ready to shit himself. Jon looks ready to rip his throat out. Martin loves this feral little man. 

Oh, shit. Martin  _loves _ him.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: brief fatphobia, workplace bullying


	6. The Leitner Home part III: Retrieve

Jon sags after Michael leaves, closing his door with only the smell of stale coffee to suggest it was ever there. The surge of emotions, coupled with his little sprint, seem to have taken all the energy out of him and he sways dangerously before Martin lifts him into the van.

“Alright, we're all set to get out of here. Is there anything here you want to take with you? Any of your things?”

He hesitates, leaning more heavily into Martin. Sasha suspects he’s been…thoroughly discouraged from asking for what he wants. Or is used to having to earn it, or having it used against him, or some other such nonsense. She really is quite glad that Jonah is now sitting in a cell with a broken wrist and fat lip. Martin and Melanie make a wicked team.

“Change of clothing, I suppose?”

“Anything else? Anything you just might like to have with you?”

“I don’t really _have_ anything anymore. He…He has all my medication but I don’t know where. My…” He grimaces. “My _hormones_. I haven’t…he brings it to me, when it’s time.”

Tim pats his hand. “We’ll find them, don’t you worry. Now, Sasha,” he says, slinging an arm around her shoulders, "I swear to _literal god_ I have _never_ heard it pronounced 'callie-ope-ie'."

\---

“I thought Jurgen Leitner was dead,” Jon says, as Martin bundles him into the van. There’s a familiar tension there. Lots of people are really very angry with Jurgen, some assuming he created the books and some knowing full well his fool’s errand. Martin knows he probably deserves it, but he also knows how hard the old man is working to make it right.

“Lots of people think that. He’ll be pleased that the Eye still can’t see him.”

A tense silence. Martin fidgets for something to do while he wraps a heavy blanket around Jon’s shoulders. Goes through his mental checklist. What comes next surely isn't small talk.

“I’d like to have a look at your ankles now. Is that okay?” 

Jon winces, brow furrowed beneath his blindfold.

“I suppose.” 

Martin thanks him and settles on the floor. Slowly, with plenty of warning, he lays his fingertips on Jon’s knee. He stiffens, then seems to force himself to relax.

"D'you want me to tell you about it? You know, like...in detail?"

He nods shakily.

”Yes, I...I’d like to know how bad it is.”

Martin takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Well," he says, lifting the leg gently with a hand just under the slender curve of his calf and another supporting his heel. It's so light, like he has the hollow bones of a bird, and there are those strange circular scars here too.

"It's not great--I'm going to move it around a little, sorry, but I'll be sure to warn you if I have to touch it."

Jon nods, jaw tight, hands white-knuckled on the blanket. Martin takes his time and tries not to think of his mother, checking her and checking her until one day there it was, bright against her skin like a testament to his failure as a caregiver and son.

"It's not great, but it's actually not as bad as I thought. You've got some sores, and a little fluid, which I'm sure you've noticed, but I don't see an abscess. Do you have any idea how long you were down there?"

"No," Jon says, tightly, pained.

"That's okay. You'll need antibiotics but I actually think I can clean and dress these here. I've had training and a bit of experience, so there shouldn't be any problems. But," he says, "I’m not a doctor. If you're not comfortable with me treating you we can wait until we get back to the Library and you can see a certified nurse. They'll want to see you anyway, I just thought it might make you feel a bit better have these cleaned up."

He thinks it's important, for cases like Jon, to give them the choice. Just a little agency over their medical care, a shred of power over what happens to them. Jon certainly seems to appreciate it.

"I...I trust you. And...thank you."

\---

"He wasn't kidding, he really doesn't have anything." Tim looks critically around the cramped bedroom, nose crinkled in distaste at the dusty, stagnant smell. Besides the cot haphazardly shoved in a corner, the tiny dresser, and the little en suite bathroom, it doesn't look at all like a bedroom. More like a cell. The bookshelves are bare, and the boxes that litter the desk are empty. From Magnus’ notes, they know the Archive feeds on trauma and new information, burning through books and tapes and Statements from the Institute and never reading anything twice. Why hadn’t they been replenished? Why was Magnus willingly starving him? 

And why keep him blind, after spending so many years grooming him?

It doesn't escape her notice that there are also shackles in here. She shivers.

"How long d'you think--"

"Doesn't matter," Tim says. "Let's grab his clothes and get upstairs. We can have a little rummage in Magnus' rooms." Tim grins, and manages to make it look a little genuine. "Do you think he calls them his _chambers_?"

Sasha forces a laugh. At least Tim's trying for humor again. She's missed it.

\---

“So…” Martin starts, awkwardly, securing the gauze around Jon's ankle. “How do you know Michael?”

Jon smiles faintly, though it threatens to crack open the raw scabs at the corners of his mouth.

“My predecessor was…responsible for his creation. He used to come see me, sometimes, to threaten me or tease me with news from the outside. Eventually just to talk. He was my friend. My only friend.”

Jon frowns. “My Master hated him. I think he fed Helen to him on purpose." His dirty hands curl into fists, clutching white-knuckled at his ragged trousers. "_Knew_ somehow what she’d do to him."

Yes, Martin thinks, he’s sure Magnus would hate such a rogue element. Breaking through the total control he kept over his ‘projects’ lives.

Jon breathes deep, lets it out through his nose and seems to deliberately uncurl his fists, finger by finger. "I don’t...I don’t blame her, anymore. She was just trying to survive. But it's been. Difficult. Not to be angry. I was there when he took her, and when she _became_ him I thought it might have been some kind of revenge.”

"And you saw it?" Jon nods. Martin winces sympathetically. “I can’t imagine how that must have felt.”

"It felt like watching him die," Jon says. “Can I…what hap—“

He stops abruptly and claps a hand over his mouth. Starts to breathe too fast for Martin's liking, curls tighter in his seat like he thinks he’ll be hurt. Which, Martin knows, he _would_ be if he dared ask an unauthorized question of Jonah Magnus. So he reaches out and carefully brushes his fingers against Jon's free hand. Jon grabs it at once, clings to it like a lifeline.

“Hey, it's alright, you're alright. Just breathe, take your time,” he murmurs. “You're safe, I promise.”

Slowly, he uncurls. Lets Martin pull the hand from his face when he starts digging his nails in.

“I..." Jon starts again, and Martin waits patiently. "I’d like to know what happened with Helen. What he meant that they’re both...Them.”

Martin wishes Sasha were here. She’d been the leader of the project, and is still considered the Distortion’s handler. She can always explain it so much better.

“How much do you know about Helen?” He asks. Jon sort of shrugs.

"Only what I knew before he ate her."

“Well...from what I understand, she didn’t destroy him so much as...take over? being the Distortion? It was really rough on her, to be honest. It must have taken Michael _years_ to stabilize--you know, as much as what he is _can_ be stable--and she was totally new."

"Yes," Jon says with a grimace. "Becoming is...unpleasant."

"Sasha was the one to figure out that they'd swapped. Led all these crazy trips into the hallways to try to find Michael in there and bring him back out. Took a long time and we almost lost a lot of people but eventually...there he was. They’ve been able to strike a sort of…balance between them, where they share the load. They’re both a lot more stable and a lot better at defining the line between what they want and what the Spiral wants.”

Jon turns his head a few seconds before Sasha pokes hers into the van.

"Are we talking about Michael? Without me?"

Martin smiles.

“Sasha was the first person from the Library to make contact with Michael. She’s sort of our leading Spiral liaison slash expert.”

“I think ‘make contact’ is generous,” Sasha says, grimacing. “He scared me half to death and _stabbed_ me.”

Jon snorts, mouth curved in that small, precious smile. “Yes, that does rather sound like Michael.”

Martin’s chest explodes with light, which he tries very hard to keep a lid on, which is so much harder because he's just realized he's still holding Jon's hand. God’s sake, he tells himself, be a bloody professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: mentions of abuse and poor living conditions, brief non-graphic discussion of the state of a skin infection


	7. All I Need, Darling, is a Life in Your Shape (family AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few hundred words of Jonmartin wedding fluff plus dad!elias. Nobody’s evil! Everything’s okay!  


Jon leans his head back into his father’s gentle hands. Lets his eyes slip closed as fingers card through his hair. 

”I could have hired a hairdresser, you know,” Elias says, but Jon can hear the smile. 

”I wanted it to be you. Like when I was little.” 

His father kisses his forehead and starts to braid his hair. 

“You’re certain about this?” 

“_Father_,” Jon warns. 

”I know, I know, Martin’s a lovely boy, but you’re sure? He _did_ lie to me on his CV, and that awful patron of his—”

“Is your _husband_.”

“_Ex_-husband.”

”Again?” Jon laughs. He feels light as clouds. He thought he’d be an anxious wreck, and for the last few days he has been. But now, here, on the actual day? 

He hardly has room for anything but joy.

”I don’t want to let you go,” Elias admits, as he twists Jon’s hair into shape. Deftly, easily, as though he were still six and asking if he absolutely _had_ to be a girl. “I look at you and...” 

He sighs, but his voice shudders just slightly. 

”It seems like just yesterday you were in my arms for the first time. I look at you and I see your beautiful little face blinking in the light.” 

”I was a horrid little screaming raisin,” Jon teases. “I’ve seen photos.” 

Elias laughs, soft and watery, and ties off the end of Jon’s braid. Fixes his green velvet kippah in place. He comes around to crouch in front of his chair, mismatched eyes shining in a way Jon’s hardly ever seen before. Dark brown and soft green, warm and full of affection.

”I’m so proud of you,” Elias breathes. His hands are warm on Jon’s face. “I love you so much, Jon.” 

There’s a lump in Jon’s throat. 

”I love you, too.”  
  


Martin fusses. It’s sort of what he does, but it’s a bit strange to be fussing over himself for once. He adjusts his outrageously expensive suit yet again, fiddles with the equally outrageously expensive cufflinks Peter gave him. 

Peter. He wonders if he’ll be here. He hates parties, but maybe...

No, Martin shakes himself. Best not get his hopes up. Simon is here, though, the mad bastard, and Tim and Sasha and all his friends, and that almost soothes the ache where Peter and his mother should be.

Peter’s a real bastard, but he’s been good to Martin. As good as he’s capable, and Martin supposes that’s enough. 

He wishes his mother were here. She did always want him to marry within the faith. She just also wants him to marry a woman. 

“I might’ve known you’d be tying yourself in knots.” 

Martin whips round, hand pressed to his heart. 

”Peter! You can’t keep...”

His brain catches up with his mouth and he stammers into silence. Something bright and precious beats in his chest. 

”You’re here.”

Peter shrugs, leans casually in the doorway. Or at least, he tries for casual, but Martin knows him well enough to see the anxious line of his shoulders, the sheepish way he smiles. The very nice suit he’s tried to arrange into affected carelessness.

”Lost a bet.” 

He’s lying. Martin fixes him with a look.

”And Simon threatened to book the Tundra for a two month cruise if I didn’t show.” 

Martin laughs. 

”When you sent the suit we sort of assumed that was about all the involvement you could stand.” 

(And it is a lovely suit. Steel gray and crisp white, accented with radiant sunny yellow.)

“Yes, well.” Peter shuffles awkwardly. His hands are deep in his pockets like he’s not sure what to do with them. 

”Thank you for coming, Peter,” Martin says. His eyes sting. “It means a lot to me.”

Peter, having apparently exhausted his excuses, mumbles something at the floor. 

Melanie bursts through the door, startling them both. 

”Oi, Martin,” she calls, for heaven’s sake he’s three feet away. “You worry yourself into a—“

She looks at Peter, looks at the tears in Martin’s eyes, and spears Peter with a gimlet eyeball. 

”What have you done now?”

Martin laughs. 

“Ooh, get you,” Georgie says. Jon flushes. “Told you green was a good choice.”

(“You can’t wear just _black_, Jon.” He is, in the end, but it’s with a soft cream shirt and rich green accessories. She even managed to talk him into a new pair of glasses, delicate gold to replace his battered horn rims. For now.)

”Georgina,” Elias says courteously. 

”Jon’s dad,” she replies. Jon rolls his eyes. They’ve been playing this game since he and Georgie met. 

Elias gives him a last, careful hug, and a lingering kiss on the top of his head, and slips away. 

”You look really good, Jon.”

”You picked it out,” he reminds her. He’s smiling like a fool. And isn’t even married yet. His stomach swoops. He’s finally going to marry Martin. To promise the man he loves that he’ll never have to be alone again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Etc etc Daisy and Basira are there being relationship goalz, Simon and Tim form some kind of flirting vortex with their combined power, and there’s a beautiful little Jewish wedding that I, the non-Jewish author, am too nervous to write at this time. Ya know, trying to strike the balance between Look At Me I Used All The Words On My Vocab List and Give Me Cookies I Did The Bare Minimum By Mentioning in Meta (lookin at you jk Rowling) Expect copious edits later, when I’m not completely overwhelmed by research and also literally writing this on my phone at work. This is a lot of excuses for such a short fic that makes 2 references to Judaism but the idea of getting any of it wrong gives me Big Panic


	8. Weren't Paying Attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have no explanation for this. a series of times Martin failed to notice Jon's jokes.

  
“What’s this box?” 

Jon doesn’t even look up.

”Blatant Plagiarism. That’ll be this one,” he says, waving the folder vaguely. “A retelling of John Carpenter’s _The Thing_ but in a Starbucks in Birmingham.” 

Martin tries very hard not to let his fingers touch Jon’s. Or to look at Jon’s hands for too long. 

”Right,” he says, scribbling a hasty label. He’ll rewrite it later. “Right, and, um, this box?” 

”Heterosexual Nonsense.” 

Martin chokes. Sasha pops her head round one of the shelves.

”I thought that was White Nonsense and Heterosexual Buffoonery?”

”No,” Jon says, bone dry, “They’ve each graduated to their own boxes.” 

Martin wheezes.

——

“Martin! Martin, come here, Jon’s taking a statement from a cop.” 

“Um, Sasha,” Martin says weakly. Staring at the large letters across Jon’s oversized mug.

Tim shushes him. Sasha, to their left, is red and wheezing. “Later, Martin, I want to see this.”

Jon maintains eye contact with the red-faced officer and drains the mug in one.

“What...what does ACAB mean?” 

—-

“Is this a _sword?”   
_

Jon gives him the all too familiar ‘Martin You’re A Bloody Fool And You’re Lucky I Can’t Fire You’ look. 

“Yes, Martin,” he says with a scathing false patience.

”Why is it under your desk?”

Jon looks over to Basira. They lock eyes. 

”Solidarity.”


	9. The Leitner Home part IV: Base

The paved road eventually gives way to packed dirt, to rolling fields and pasture. The anxious knot in Martin’s chest loosens more with every minute. They’ve made it. They’re out.

He hears the first crunch of gravel well after the sun has set. Jon flinches at the sudden change in soundscape.

“Jon. Jon?” A beat.

“Oh. That’s, um. That’s me.” He looks embarrassed, sheepish. Gives a tiny, nervous sort of smile. “I’m sorry. It’s been…some time, since anyone…”

Since anyone called him by name. Martin’s heart creaks under the strain but does not break. He’s much stronger than he used to be. He thinks of his heart as a staircase, at times like this. The steps may bend and groan under pressure but he will not break and send this tiny, vulnerable man falling.

“We’re here. Come on, there's a stretcher waiting, so you won't have to walk."

  
Jon trembles all through the doctor's careful ministrations (during which Martin is complemented on the dressing of Jon's ankles).

When she suggests removing the blindfold, it's five whole minutes before Martin soothes Jon enough to be able to articulate his refusal. She relents, but on the condition that she examine the area as thoroughly as she pleases. So Jon clings to Martin's hand with both of his and shakes and shakes while the doctor does her best to check the skin under the fabric, looks at his temples with a magnifying lens.

("How long has this been on?" She asks. Jon doesn't know.)

He's deemed healthy enough to bathe himself, but not without supervision.

“That'll be me, I suppose," Martin says. "Since I've been sort of...handling you, so far. If you’d be more comfortable with a nurse, or someone of a different gender, I can always...”

He gestures vaguely before remembering that Jon can’t see him.

Jon shakes his head slowly. “No, it’s alright. I’d, er. I'd like it to be you. Not—not that I—I just meant—ugh.” He drags his hands down his face. Martin tries very hard not to find any of this cute.

“I just mean, I feel comfortable with you. I trust you.” Damned if that doesn’t make Martin feel some sort of way. Jon wrings his hands, furiously red in the face.

”Just...if you could just not...look? When I get in? I know you’ll probably be able to see me after that, but then I can pretend you can’t?” 

“Of course,” Martin says. “Whatever you need. D'you need help with your hair?"

"What about it?"

"Well, it's all tangled. If you get it wet like this, it'll just set and be impossible to brush out."

Jon squirms. Wrings his hands.

"I--I can do it myself."

Martin narrows his eyes.

"Can you?"

"Of course," Jon snaps. Martin's glad he's comfortable enough to be cranky, but that doesn't make it helpful.

"You've been trapped and starved for at least a few weeks. Can you hold your arms up for long enough? Or will you just exhaust yourself?"

Jon scowls. Martin waits.

"...I suppose you may have a point."

His hair really is in rough shape. Knotted and dirty. He works his fingers through it anyway, works the big tangles free and picks the little ones out with a comb and a lot of patience. Jon barely reacts when he has to tug, but instead slowly melts back against him, tension draining out of his skinny frame.

\---

"How are you feeling?"

Tim swirls the dregs of his tea. Stares down into it, but he doesn't seem to be seeing it.

"I...I don't know. Better, I think? But--But I still can't help but feel like I shouldn't."

Sasha sits beside him. Leans her shoulder on his.

"I know he'd want me to be happy, but every time I am, I feel like I'm betraying him, somehow. Like I'm forgetting that my fucking _brother_ died. And I'm still so _angry,_ and I know we're working on it but it's not _enough. _I want to hurt them so bad it makes me sick." His knuckles are white. His tea is steaming again. His shoulder feels uncomfortably warm against hers. "It makes me sick how happy I feel when I think about torching that fucking taxidermist's."

"Tim," she says, soft and warning.

"Sorry." He takes a breath and the heat softens. "I--I'm not...I know you're not my therapist, I shouldn't be dumping this on you."

"You're not dumping, you're sharing. I want to help you."

"You are. You and Martin both." He manages a weak smile. A dim impression of the radiance he once exuded. It's still in there, Sasha's sure. He's still Tim. "Today was a really good day."

\---

“M-Martin,” Jon says softly, so soft he can barely hear it over the water. “I...I’m nearly finished but I may need some assistance.”

“What do you need?”

”My hair, I can’t...” 

“Do you need help washing it, or is there another tangle?” 

A pause.

”Um. Both.” 

Martin stands up and dutifully avoids looking through the quite clear shower door. 

”I’ll get you a towel, so you can cover up, okay?” 

”Yeah.”

The man sounds exhausted. He must be, after such a long day. Martin can’t imagine he has much energy to work with. 

He hands a big, soft towel in through the door, and Jon snatches it with a horrifically scarred hand. Burnt in the vague shape of fingers. 

”You can come in. You were right about my arms.”

Jon curls in on himself where he's sat (Martin's glad he remembered to put a chair in this shower), arms wrapped protectively over his chest, the towel hiked up to his armpits. He is absolutely covered in scars. The round pits Martin saw before are scattered up his legs, his neck and shoulders, probably his sides as well.

He’s gathered his hair over one shoulder and the long, elegant neck he reveals makes Martin’s stomach flip. He’s lovely. This thought comes without hunger, without heat. Just a tickle of joy, like being close enough to touch a deer, something skittish and beautiful. He doesn’t feel that awful stab of guilt, because he knows right now that he’s never going to hurt this man as long as he lives.

He slips his shoes and socks off and steps inside. 

“Show me where?”

Jon trails his fingers over the lumpy, healed-over stitches at his temple. He’s very gray there. Then lower, to the back of his neck, wincing. 

”Here,” he hisses. “I always get knots here.” 

Martin works a little conditioner into the knot and picks it gently apart. Combs the area for more and finds several. 

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" He keeps his voice as gentle as he can. He doesn't want to scold Jon any more than strictly necessary.

"Didn't want to be a bother," he mumbles.

"I'm here to help you, Jon. You're not bothering me."

He can tell Jon doesn't believe him. Is this another of Magnus' lessons? He really is glad to have hit the bastard in the mouth.

\----

Jon looks much different, clean and relaxed and dressed in proper clothes—old, but soft and well-loved. Hardly as ragged as the black ones. His hair, dry now, is thick and wavy and surprisingly soft. Splayed out dark and silvered over the white pillow. Martin watches his thin, sunken chest rise and fall in steady rhythm and wonders, not for the first time, what color his eyes are.

It’s really the sleep that changes Jon. His face, while still gaunt, looks ages younger while all soft and sleep-slack. His brow unlined, his mouth soft and—

That’s entirely enough of that. It’s not right, entertaining those kind of thoughts about someone so utterly helpless. He doesn’t let go of his hand, though. Keeps his fingers entwined with Jon’s.

He does look youthful, though, and Martin is suddenly faced with the uncomfortable certainty that for all the gray streaked through that soft hair, for all the scars, Jon can’t be much older than he is. Maybe even younger. Magnus’ notes were vague, and full of arrogant purple prose, so he really has very little idea what’s happened to him.

“So this is Magnus’ Archive.”

Martin whips his head round so fast his neck cracks. The man at the door winces sympathetically.

“Ow—Gerry what the _fuck?_”

“Sorry!” Gerry hisses. “Jesus, I thought you’d hear me coming.” He waggles a heavily booted foot and sort of...vaguely gestures to the many chains and buckles adorning his person. As though he doesn't move like a fucking cat.

“I brought you some tea.”

Martin squints at him as he comes closer.

“Why are you here?”

Gerry looks at him like he’s dense. “Tea.”

Martin snatches the mug from him. “Don’t be a dick, why are you _here?_ You hate Leitner.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I won’t let him buy me dinner when he’s in the mood to try and win me over. It's free food, mate.”

Martin snorts, then covers his mouth. He can't wake Jon, he has to get a hold of--oh god, he's giggling like mad.

"You're _awful,_" Martin whispers, helplessly.

"Yeah, well, you still like me and that's your fault."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's right babey Gerry's alive and he's gonna STAY that way this is MY city now


	10. So Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumination on the last moments of a lonely man

"How...how did he feel, at the end?"

Jon lays his head on Martin's shoulder. Sighs quietly. Peter Lukas' last moments still sit heavy in his stomach sometimes.

"He was...He was heartbroken. He thought he was the one person Elias wasn't just _using. _That, and..."

Jon pauses, looks up at Martin.

"What?"

"He really thought you understood him." He laces his fingers through Martin's. "He died scared and heartsick. I think his god loved him most of all in that moment."

"That's sad," Martin says, and Jon can hear that he means it. He thinks he agrees.

"Yes, I suppose it is."


	11. King of the New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck Jonah Magnus

“What was it he said,” Martin asks coldly, “King of a ruined world?” 

He nudges what is still partially Jonah Magnus with his boot. The pitiful thing blinks up at them, every one of his many eyes plaintive and terrified. As they watch, a new one blinks open on the remains of his hand with an awful slick noise and quite a lot of fluid. 

”Yes,” Jon says, as Jonah Magnus tries to scream through a throat clogged with his god’s reward, “In rather the style of a _rat king_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wordplay came first and then fuck Jonah Magnus came second


	12. The Leitner Home part V: Recognition

In the next few days, Jon’s fever spikes and Martin is forbidden to see him. He’s used to that, honestly, too big and unwieldy to hang around while the nurses tend to someone he cares for. And he does care for Jon. Jurgen is quick to remind him that Jon is still the Archive, a powerful and pseudo-cannibalistic avatar of Beholding, but he’s also _Jon_. 

Jon with tiny wrists and elegant fingers and careful, questionless inquiries. Jon, with gaunt cheeks and that rich voice.

And, well, isn’t Martin a bit of a monster, too? Just as Tim struggles with Desolation, with the lines between justice and revenge and open cruelty, Martin still wakes up some days wreathed in a sweetly numbing fog. Still longs sometimes for the indifference, the safety.

“You said he called himself ‘Jon’, right?”

Martin nods, pulling himself out of his reverie. He’s here, in this coffee shop, and he is not alone. He is happy to see Basira. He will always choose to be happy to see her.

“Little brown guy, gray hair but way too young for it?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s—is this an arrest record_?_”

“Protest in uni. Vicious little guy, apparently he wouldn’t stop shouting when they got him in the car. Capitalism, I think it was?_” _

Tim’s going to have a field day if he finds out about this. Perhaps they can bond over youth well spent. 

“Looks like your man’s Jonathan Sims. Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, no surprises there. Apparently he’s still on their payroll and all their employee registers. Never even reported missing, as far as I can tell.”

“That can’t be right. The way we found him, it must have been _years._”

Basira shrugs. “No next of kin, emergency contact number went out of service a while back. There’s no other employees listed in the archives for the last few years, so he was working alone.”

Martin can almost feel clammy, salty fog on his skin. No one even noticed Jon was gone. He’s been locked up in Jonah Magnus’ _house_ for _years_ and no one _noticed._

“Martin.” Basira says, sharply.

“Sorry?”

“You went a little...” She wiggles her fingers. “He’s out now, that’s what matters. We’ve got him.”

She puts a hand on his arm. “We’ve got you, too.”

“Thanks, Basira.”

She gives him a nod. She hasn’t smiled much since Daisy. 

“You put the word out and see if anybody knows him. I’ll see if I can build us a timeline of what happened. Should help.”

  
  
Back in London, a fat cat purrs across two laps, and the smaller lap-haver stares down at her phone.

”Georgie,” Melanie says, slowly, “Remind me what your ex looks like?”

——

“_Don’t be difficult,” Elias says sternly. _

“_I-I’m sorry, just...surely, surely I could go without it just this once?” _

_The gag looks so innocent in Elias’ hands. So simple, metal fittings to secure his mouth and restrict his tongue, and supple black leather to cover most of his jaw. Keeps all the unsightly workings hidden from Elias’ sensitive guests, and keeps him from drooling all over the place. _

_It’s much better than the other one. _

“_It’s purely for my guests’ comfort. You do want my guests to be comfortable, don’t you?” _

_You don’t want to hurt them, do you, little monster?_

“_...yes, sir. Of course.”_

When Jon wakes to darkness, he relaxes a little. Raises his hands to his mouth and, making sure there’s no gag digging cruelly into his flesh, moves his hands to skim over crisp sheets. They’re not exactly soft but clean and in good repair. Breathes in, a smell that is almost hospital but accented with personal touches, industrial cleaner and personally selected laundry soap. Nothing like dusty office or stagnant bedroom or damp basement. 

It’s still real. It’s all still real. 

There’s breath beside him, and that soft smell-feel of lingering Lonely, the more physical scent of floral shampoo.

”Martin?” 

Warm fingers brush his. He threads them together gratefully.

”Yeah, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

”A lot better, honestly. Still sort of...hot and stuffy. I assume I’ve been asleep a while?”

“In and out for a couple of days.”

”Days,” he murmurs. “Better than six months.”

Martin’s hand clenches in his.

”Have you slept for six months before?”

He probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. Martin sounds upset. 

”I was...hurt. When I was still...” It still stings to admit, despite his master’s best efforts. “When I was human. I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright.” 

That warm hand squeezes his. 

“That’s fine, Jon.”

He hears Martin’s clothes rustle as he straightens, squeezes his hand once more before setting it down with a pat. 

”You’ve got a visitor, if you’re feeling well enough. I could always tell her to come back another time.”

Her? Who would want to visit him? He has no one. 

”I-I suppose.” 

He wants to ask. He wants to Ask but he knows better. 

“I’ll bring her in.” Martin says, with a last soft pat of his shoulder.

Jon traces his mouth as he hears the door close, runs his fingers along his bottom lip until he finds the sunken scar gouged into the corner. He’d resisted the barbed gag at first. A lot of good that did him. Still, the texture soothes him, grounds him through his confused apprehension.

Who is ‘her’? Maybe Helen’s come to see him? He honestly can’t think of another ‘her’.

”Jon!”

Oh. _Oh_.

He tenses, readies himself for her anger. It’s been years, and even before that she was very clear on how she felt about his...work. Fuck, she told him, and he didn’t listen, probably got dragged here—

“Oh, thank god.”

There are arms around him and he’s surrounded in her. The sound of her breath, the old denim jacket she loves, the patches he helped her sew still sat proud and crooked on her shoulder, cool under his hand. The smell of the coconut oil she uses in her hair, and the lingering touch of the End, and her perfume and her favorite Hungarian place and the Admiral and Jon doesn’t know when he started to cry but now he’s _sobbing_.

”I’m sorry,” he chokes out, buries his face in her shoulder and clutches her back, “I’m so sorry, you were right. You were right about everything.” 

Her damp jacket feels so nice on his overwarm face. So soft, so tender and familiar in a way he doesn’t deserve. Never deserved.

”Yeah,” she agrees, “But that doesn’t matter right now. You’re out, and you’re safe.” 

He is, isn’t he? Properly safe?

”...I did tell you it was a cult, though.” 

He surprises himself with a watery laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: references to recent abuse/captivity, one flashback-style scene of emotional abuse and manipulation
> 
> Next time: the same world as chapter 7. A look into who Jon's father really is, and how he manages to not be Evil.


	13. A Compromise (family AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion to chapter 7 (the wedding one); an explanation of how Elias Bouchard is actually not (as) evil and everything's fine.

Jonah Magnus loved two people in his natural life: his father, and Jonathan Fanshawe. He loved selectively and intensely, powerfully, and the loss of both hit him harder than he'd ever admit.

Elias Bouchard loved only his mother. Even then it was a weak, sickly beast that wore thin with age as he wrapped himself up in the idle distraction of men and drugs. By the time he came to work at the Institute, it had almost totally fizzled.

He thought of her, though, when James Wright's body pinned him down and explained the fate of its previous occupant, when he_ begged_ to be spared. Jonah could never really say why he listened. How this useless boy managed to _bargain_ with him. Perhaps age had finally managed to soften him. Perhaps he was merely curious as to whether such a thing could even _work._ Whatever the reason, Jonah only put _one_ of his eyes into Elias Bouchard's head.

It was jarring, disorienting, but effective. Elias Bouchard now contained two distinct people. At first swapping control of the body between them, but slowly reaching a balance. Sharing. Ambition turns complacency to patience, sentiment smooths an infamously ugly temper. It works. Together, they form a truly formidable man.

They also, somehow, fall in love_ twice_.

The first is, of course, Peter Lukas. Jonah, as James Wright, had already taken a liking to him and Elias is quick to follow. Peter's charming, in his way, and unsteady as a fresh-faced young avatar. His curls are still mousy brown when Elias idly brushes them from his face. His beard mere stubble that does nothing to cover the blotchy flush that consumes his pale face.

Their love for him is one of the first things that truly unites them. They love him slowly, like the inevitable crashing tide. Love him dashed on the rocks, love him light and airy as seafoam. Love him bit by bit over time, until it feels like they always have.

And he loves them, too, in the face of the danger that poses. In the face of Forsaken, of funeral after funeral for Lukases who couldn't keep themselves apart, Peter loves them back.

"I'm going to die_," _he tells them, soft and frightened in the dark of their bedroom. The first thing he's said all night, they realize, though Peter's always been quiet. He prefers to let the thump of damp boots and coat in the hall closet say _I'm back_, the salted grime of his unwashed hair say _I couldn't wait,_ the press of his lips say _I missed you._ The very fact of his presence say _I love you._

He says it now, though, terrified, hands rough and calloused on Elias' face. "I love you. I love you both so much. It's going to _kill_ _me_."

Which is, as they tell him, _nonsense_. Neither Jonah nor Elias have ever been inclined to give up what's theirs.

(Simon laughs knowingly when they speak to him. It turns out the sea loves Peter, too).

The second person they love is Jon, though by the time he's born _they_ have melted together into a _he_ that is both of them and neither.

He, Elias, just Elias, loves his child immediately, and with staggering force. Crashes down through all the layers of falling in love and lands directly into utter devotion. Holds what he at the time thinks is his daughter, looks down into her squalling face and knows _fear_ like he's never known in nearly two centuries. He trembles in every limb, shushes her with a voice that hasn't shaken since this body was a filing clerk, looks into her big brown eyes and weeps for joy and terror.

Later, he weeps for despair. All his machinations, all his plans are for nothing. He could never expose his child to the kind of world he would have built.

(Peter and Simon say he dotes on her. As if Peter doesn't fawn over her every minute he's on land, as if Simon doesn't slip her candies when he's pretending to think Elias isn't watching. But can he blame them, really? It's not as if he's much better. It's hard to look into those huge brown eyes, Elias' eyes, and not want to absolutely spoil her).

Peter is, for the third time, no longer his partner when she asks him. He's completely on his own for the biggest question of his life.

"Father," she says, carefully, perfectly still in his lap while he braids her hair with a yellow ribbon. "Do I...Do I _have_ to be a girl?"

He does everything his child asks. In this, he must be absolute in his indulgence. Cuts away all his pretty hair (because his _son_ cannot stand to be touched by anyone but him), helps him choose the name _Jonathan _(a moment of deep sentiment, because after all this time Jonah still misses Doctor Fanshawe and how could Elias deny him), even moves him to an entirely new school and a new neighborhood where no one knows his old name. 

And all is well for two whole years, until he gets careless. Gets sloppy, takes his Eye from his son for just a moment. And then all he can do is watch, too far to act, as Jon opens his first Leitner. Races home and chases down the street with an indignity he hasn’t allowed himself since he was only Elias, and _never_ when he was Jonah. 

He Watches, helpless, unable to tear his baby boy from the Web’s clutches even after that miserable brute wrests it from his grip. Elias only catches up when the older boy knocks, knocks, and the Web pokes its nasty legs out to snag him. Only then can he drag Jon back against him, hold him as he shuts down. Hold his beautiful son and cry for the first time since he was born. Mumbles _I'm here, baby, I'm here_, when what he means is _I'm so sorry, __oh, god, I almost lost you._

He's angry with himself for years after that. Useless, arrogant, unable even to shield his son from the sight of the other boy being taken. Elias may as well have stayed Elias the burnt out prick, and Jonah may as well have simply died for all the good they did their son.

Jon never blames him, though. He can't fathom that.

He still can't quite believe it now, more than twenty years later. It's what he chooses to think about, as he hears the shattering of glass under Jon and Martin's feet. How his complacency could have cost them this.

But then Jon looks at his new husband, with such naked joy in his face, with those big brown eyes shining with unshed tears. Elias looks to Peter, his mouth in a tight line (that Elias knows is holding back tears of his own) that he still wants to kiss into softness, and knows that this?

This was worth the compromise. He'd give up a thousand thrones of a thousand ruined worlds for one human lifetime filled with moments like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i definitely want to explore this more, especially the forbidden Soft Lonelyeyes and the blink-and-you-missed-it Vast!Peter. Vast/Lonely Cusp!Peter. Whatever.


	14. The Five (family AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tie-in to chapters 7 & 13 (tentatively called the Wedding AU?) from Peter's perspective. i'm just,,, so fuckign soft you guys

Peter remembers vaguely that one is supposed to think about love at weddings. Someone told him that, he's sure. Maybe Martin? It's such a broad subject that one wonders where to begin.

Peter thinks he loves only two things: Elias, and the sea.

_He stands, shaking in every limb, at the very point of the Tundra's prow. Hands clenched numb at his sides. _

_He takes off his heavy coat, takes off his shirt, leaves himself exposed to the biting cold wind in only his vest and trousers. Elias kisses him when he takes the haphazard bundle. _

_"I love you," he says, odd eyes bright. _

_"Which 'I'?" Peter jokes weakly. Which I, which eye. He usually thinks it's funny. He doesn't think it's funny now. _

_Elias smirks at him. God, he's beautiful._

_"Are you ready?"_

_"No," he says honestly. He'll never be ready. _

_"Perfect."_

_And Simon pushes him into the sea.  
_

_Sinking feels like falling, feels like floating. Feels like he's **nothing**, compared to the great sucking empty of the Endless. It's terrifying. It's beautiful. Peter takes a deep breath of impossibly cold water and thrashes, and drowns. Is crushed under pressure, pressure, pressure, and it feels **right**._

How fortunate that Elias and the sea love him back.

But there’s Jon, too, isn’t there?

_Elias is waiting for him when he finally makes it back. It’s late, and he’s exhausted from the ravages of taxi driver chatter, and Elias doesn’t even let him knock before opening the door. _

_There’s a word for this feeling, this sweet aching, like the unclenching of a muscle. Stuck somewhere in his brain._

_Stuck in his throat as Elias helps him out of his greatcoat and scratches elegant fingers through his beard, kisses him soft and sweet even though their phone calls haven’t quite smoothed the ruffled feathers from their brief breakup. The unknown word feels lumpy and foreign, hard to swallow around at the sight of his wet coat hanging in the hall by Elias’ and his daughter’s. Their daughter’s._

_”Lizzie still up?”_

_Elias hums._

_”We need to talk, actually.”_

_The word turns icy sharp.   
_

_”Is she okay? Did something happen?”_

_”Relax.” Elias has a crease between his eyebrows. “There have been some...revelations, since you’ve been away.”   
_

_Later, the word pounds in his throat to the anxious rhythm of his heart. He wants to get this right. _

_”Hello?” He says, softly, knocking on the doorframe of his stepson’s room.   
_

_His **son**. He quite likes the sound of that.   
_

_”That’s not what sailors say,” says a small voice. He’s got his arms crossed and a stern look on his lovely little face._

_”Ahoy,” Peter says dryly, “Who might you be, young man, if you’re such an expert?”_

_He comes stiffly out of bed, extends a tiny brown hand. His stern expression never wavers—even at six he’s great at deadpan._

_”Jonathan Bouchard. A pleasure, sir.”_

_Peter takes the hand, does a fussy bow, and tugs Jonathan into his arms. Blows raspberries all over his cheeks and neck until he breaks character, squealing.   
_

_It’s home. That’s what the word for this is, for the softness of Jon’s freshly shorn hair and of Elias’ laughter. Home._

Of course he loves his stepson. Loved him when he was his stepdaughter, loved him when he was a squealing, squishy bundle in Elias' arms. He doesn't even begrudge Elias the affair; Peter probably would have slept with the sharp and witty Miss Sims, too, if he were like to do that sort of thing.

(Elias says there's a word for that, too. His complete lack of desire for strangers or passing acquaintances, for anyone until he knows them deeply. He's not sure he cares, but it's sort of nice to know that if he ever does, there's a word waiting to put it all in a neat little box).

Peter's tried to tell Jon in gestures, as words so often fail them both, spoiling him and spending as much time with him as he can bear. He's grateful to have such a shrewd child, one who understands that sometimes being close to the ones he loves hurts more than being far away.

Alright, then, it's three things. The sea, Elias, and Jon.

But what about Simon?

Simon, who's been _there _for him for so long. For his whole life, really. It's never been something he thought to be grateful for, like breath, or the moon. The sun will rise tomorrow. The tide will come in. Simon will be there if he needs him.

That's what he's always said.

"I'll be around if you need me." Spoken casually, as though that wasn't _everything_ to a Lukas. As though it wasn't life and death to Peter.

Simon was there, wasn't he? On the Tundra that day, sure, but before, too. When Peter was so scared he couldn't breathe, so desperately in love that every part of him ached and burned.

"_Yes, this was bound to happen sooner or later," Simon chuckles. Peter is useless and shaking in Elias' arms, face tucked into his shoulder as if the smell of him can shield him from Forsaken's retribution._

_"I don't suppose you could make an introduction."_

_"Oh, absolutely. Though I don't suppose my usual brand will do, now will it?" Simon and Elias both laugh, and Peter is confused and desperately fond of them both._

Alright, four then, with Simon. The sea, Elias, Jon, and Simon.

And, of course, there's Martin. He can't forget Martin. He can't deny Martin.

_Poetry isn't usually his thing. At least, not **live** poetry. He actually likes to think of the written word as **dead** poetry, something removed from its source, abandoned to the whims of whoever consumes it. _

_No, he's not really a fan of live poetry, but there's a little event at the docks, picked out in fairy lights and quaintly mismatched chairs, and he's bored and sober. And the young man nervously taking the makeshift stage of old crates and palettes is enticingly lonely. _

_"Um," the boy says, chubby cheeks pink and a little shiny with sweat. "Right. This piece is called 'Enough'."_

_"I am strong enough_

_to carry you._

_When you are weak _

_I carry your body, and_

_The weight of your gaze._

_I am big enough to carry what's yours._

_Your bag,_

_And your bills,_

_And your name._

_But I am still _ _not enough _ _for you." _

_Peter hangs around, unseen, afterwards. Listens to the boy (Martin Blackwood) tell someone sheepishly that the poem is about his mother. He doesn't feel a twinge of sympathy at that. Doesn't take in the threadbare state of his clothes, his old brick of a phone, or the way he slips some of the free snacks into his pockets. What he does do is ask Martin Blackwood out for coffee._

_Then clarifies no, god no, not like a date, he's got a partner. He’s just interested in poetry and terrible at social cues.  
_

_They do lunches for some time (after Peter begrudgingly admits to himself he won't be feeding Martin to either of his gods). It’s like a dance: Peter pays, Martin tries to refuse, and Peter escalates by paying three months of Ms. Blackwood's medical expenses. _

_Martin tries to insist he do some sort of work for this, come to the docks or something, but the mental image of Martin losing a hand or breaking his neck or simply drowning makes Peter go so far as to ban him from his ship.   
_

_He hires him anyway. Beginning to actually carry real cargo on the Tundra has produced rather more admin than he was expecting, and young Mr Blackwood quickly proves an indispensable assistant. Technology is amazing these days; Martin doesn't even need to **see** the ship he's helping run.  
_

To think, Elias had laughed when Peter suggested he hire Martin in some vague administrative smokescreen position. Softened, when Peter had asked plainly to bring him under the Watcher's protection. Martin _understands _him in a way so few people do. Peter simply can’t lose him, and so his assistant works out of what is essentially a rented office near the Archives.

He looks positively radiant in his suit, Peter thinks a little smugly, his handsome assistant. Watch Elias claim he hasn’t any taste now. 

(Elias is beautiful today. He looks incredible in heather gray. From here, Peter can almost make out the beauty mark under his left eye. How would he react if Peter kissed him there, right now, or—)

Martin’s elbow catches him in the ribs. 

”If you get engaged at my _wedding_,” Martin says, pleasant smile never once slipping, “You’ll be answering your own emails for a _year_.”

Peter shudders and slinks off after a drink. In this light, Elias almost seems worth it.

So, yes, Peter Lukas loves five things: the sea, and Elias, and Jon, and Simon, and Martin. And Elias, and Elias, and _Elias_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring:  
-demisexual Peter  
-also probably autistic Peter? he definitely has sensory processing issues, at least how I write him, and canon trouble communicating  
-clumsy infodumps  
-just a lot of fluff. just a ton.


	15. The Leitner Home part VI: Rest

Martin tries not to fidget as the nurse takes everyone's mugs and bustles off. He's still working on accepting help, even little things like when Gerry brings him tea.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" He smacks his forehead lightly. "Jon, Gerry wanted to know if he could visit tomorrow, if you're feeling well."

Jon gapes.

"I'm sorry, you don't mean _Gerard Keay?" _

"...yes? He wants to meet you and maybe take a look at your blindfold. Last time he visited you were still sleeping."

Jon's voice rises several octaves as his shoulders creep up towards his ears.

"_Gerard Keay_ was _here_ while I was_ sleeping?"_

"It's actually Delano now, but yeah? Why?"

He covers his face with his hands but they can all see the deep blush creeping down his neck.

"I've--he's in a lot of statements. He seems..."

"Oh," Tim says, and Jon somehow manages to glare without the use of his eyes."_Ohhhhh_."

"_What?"_

Martin presses his fist to his mouth to stop the giggles and Sasha is taking deep breaths through her nose but Tim affords no such courtesy. He's grinning like Martin hasn't seen in a long time. 

Tim leans close.

"You know, he was right about where I am."

Jon _squeaks _and swats at Tim's arm. Sasha snorts.

"_Tim_," Martin warns, but it's very much blunted by the giggles he's now failing to hold back. "Don't tease."

Jon buries his face in his knees. "You're all _horrible_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was gonna be longer but really I just wanted someone to tease Jon about his star struck/crush on Gerry


	16. Observant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daisy friendship/possibly qpr feelings. Just. It's just Feelings.

“You cut your hair.”

Damn him. He’s too observant and all of her feels like a bubble that could pop at any second. She’s cradling this rare good feeling close to her chest like a baby bird, but he’s got gentle hands.

“Tell me what you’re feeling?”

Daisy smiles warm and weak. Shaky. Toys with her hair, feels the miraculous softness between her fingers. The gentle waves that haven’t shown up since she was a kid and actually took care of it. The fresh, clean edges.

“It’s weird. It’s such a little thing but, but good?”

Jon squeezes her hand. Her vision swims as her eyes fill with grateful tears.

“I just. I got it cut, you know, just to keep it healthy, but when I saw it I...It’s just been so long since I felt beautiful.”

Her mouth trembles around her words. He’s smiling so sweet and soft at her.

“And...and it’s so _nice._ It’s so _normal._”

All of her feels like bottled sunlight. Jon hugs her and that feels like a supernova.

"Don't cry you big lesbian," he says into her shoulder, though he sounds a little watery too.

"I'm gonna cry even harder just for that."

  
  


“You’ve been crying.”

Damn her. She’s too observant and all of him feels like a soft underbelly right now. Her hand lands on his shoulder. He’s lost already.

“Tell me what you’re feeling?”

Daisy’s hazel-yellow eyes are so soft these days.

“I...”

His throat is tight like there’s something in it. Like he’s choking on this awful, helpless feeling.

“I love him.”

Saying it out loud feels less like lancing a boil and more like being stabbed. The inevitable second part of it, the second slice as it pulls out. It feels like he’s had a knife in his guts for years.

“I love him so much. I love him so much and he’s _right there_ and he won’t talk to me.”

Daisy laces their fingers together and squeezes. His eyes burn. His tears burn tracks down his cheeks. His cheeks burn with shame and his scarred hand burns in sympathy, in memory. All of him is on fire, and he of all people would know how it feels to be consumed by hot, hungry grief.

“I love him so much and he’s just _gone._ And I’m so scared that I’ll try to find him and he’ll be gone for good this time. And there will be nothing left of him and I’ll be alone and I know I deserve to be but I can’t make myself want it.”

He sobs, tastes salt and the bitterness of a long-empty mouth.

“I miss him so much I could die.”

Daisy’s arms wrap around him and he buries his face in her shoulder. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

She smells like Basira’s cheap laundry soap and cloying fake-rose shampoo. Like clean sweat and dead leaves.

“I love you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t mean to say it but he means _it._

Daisy’s voice is as thick and weak as his when she says:

“I love you too.”


	17. The Importance of Baking Paper

"Martin? Martin!"

Jon's shouting, oh he sounds so concerned Martin could _ cry. _

He’s been trying to waft the smoke out the tiny kitchen window for almost ten minutes, tried to banish it before Jon got back from his little walk, but the stink remains, the blackened baking sheet a testament to his failure. Half his pale little shortbreads are black as well, and the rest are only half-burnt, but he suspects they’ll taste like smoke. What did he do _ wrong? _

“Martin? Martin are you okay? Are you hurt? I saw the smoke from--what happened?”

He waves a hand at the offending sheet. 

“Burnt my bloody biscuits, didn’t I?”

Jon’s brown eyes flick to Martin’s face, whole and unblemished, then to his hands, unharmed, then to the gently smoking oven and sad remains of baking. His shoulders slump. 

“Christ, Martin.” 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t even put them in for that long! I honestly don’t know what happened.” He drags his hands over his face, pushes his glasses up onto the top of his head. “You’ve been doing all the cooking, I wanted to do something for you. And I found my nan’s old un kurabiyesi recipe, and I _ thought _ I did everything _ right, _I even put them on wax paper so they wouldn’t stick to Daisy’s stupid old baking sheets, god knows they’re probably all rusted--”

“Martin.”

He stops, looks at Jon, who is looking at him with a very strange expression. His voice is exasperated, but he’s smiling just a little, mustache twitching up at one corner. 

“Wax paper, Martin.”

It takes a full ten, fifteen seconds for the penny to drop.

“_ Wax paper.” _

Jon dissolves into giggles. His eyes are crinkled at the corners so beautifully, and Martin can’t help but laugh too.

“Wax melts in the oven. Oh my god, wax melts in the oven.”

Jon snorts, leans on the counter, giggling so helplessly that he’s having trouble standing. 

“Yes, Martin darling, wax melts in the oven.” 

When he can breathe again, Martin pulls Jon close and kisses him on his smug mouth. 

“You called me darling.”

Jon goes a little red.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah. More than okay.”

Jon kisses him, so achingly soft that Martin’s knees feel weak. He’s always quite liked kissing men with beards. Then Jon snorts again.

“What.”

“_ Wax, _ Martin.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is. This is nothing. This is nothing, and THIS is my first foray into fluffy safehouse fic? This is just a joke i thought of that wouldnt let me rest. God, these two make me so gay I'm not ready for season 5. Also I just looked up popular Turkish cookies they might have ingredients for, I don't know if there's a plural or something I would have missed.


	18. Helpless (family AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family AU: Elias and Peter feel the aftermath of A Guest for Mister Spider

When he calls, and he always does in the end, Elias always says “Come back.” 

Except this time. 

“Come home," Elias says, voice strained even over the phone. "Please. I need you here."

Except this can't be Elias, his Elias, because his Elias doesn't beg. His Elias entices, coerces, makes wagers and threats and teasing little jokes. His Elias is smooth and cool and effortlessly pushy, his Elias’ voice doesn’t tremble.

Peter’s on a jet in less than an hour.

Jon can't tell him what happened but he looks haunted. He can't speak at all, practically catatonic. Elias isn't much better, after they've put Jon to bed, and moved to the sitting room with his door ajar.

"He almost died."

Peter has never seen him like this. Disheveled, tie crooked and sleeves unevenly rolled, hair in disarray. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pallid. He's a wreck. Peter can't speak for the lump in his own throat. Just squeezes his lover's shoulder. 

Elias pulls away and bustles about fetching a strong drink. A decanter of something probably older than Peter. 

“_Fucking _ Spider.” 

Peter wants to ask what the Mother could want with their boy. What possible use She could have for destroying him.

Elias downs one drink entirely in one go and pours another. Slams things around with such force and fury, winds tighter and tighter into a cyclone of barely contained rage. 

“Some horrid spider creature out of one of those _ wretched _ books. That bloody woman—she’s always resented him, always hated that her son wasn’t his _ real _ father. Just grabs any old book that will make him leave her alone, that _ bitch. _ And _ you._”

Elias rounds on him, face red and finger stabbing at the air between them. 

“If you were here I wouldn’t have left him with that useless woman, but no, you’re too busy running around in your little shrine to raise _ your _ son.”

It hurts. God, it hurts, and he knows that’s the point but it still feels like an arrow in his gut. 

“It would have killed him. Do you understand? It snared him and it would have _ eaten _ him. If you had _ been _ here instead of on your bloody _ cruise _—“ 

That’s not fair, he wants to say it isn’t _ fair_. Of all the times for his words to desert him, Forsake him!

Elias throws his glass to the floor. It shatters, sprays shards everywhere. 

“Will you _ say something!” _

He tries, he _ does,_ but all he can manage is that awful impotent croak.

He can only stare, watching the frantic tension drain away, Elias’ frame sagging and his breath slowing. His voice is terribly small when he speaks next.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.” His mouth is trembling. It _ can’t _ be, but it is. He looks down at his hands, as though he can’t process his own existence. 

“I only Looked away for a second. A few minutes."

Elias chokes, clutches his face in shaking hands. Something brittle in Peter’s chest snaps and fills his belly with pain. 

"It almost had him. I almost--" 

Elias begins to weep, to sob helplessly. "I almost lost him. My _ baby._"

Peter pulls him close, feeling helpless and awkward and ill. He hasn’t seen Elias cry like this since...Ever. He doesn’t know what to do, wishes he could_ say something._

And.

And they could have lost Jon. He could have come home to a quiet house and packed away all Jon’s things—

It doesn't bear thinking about.

He wonders if his gods like this gnawing, helpless feeling. It certainly aches enough for Forsaken. Feels great and terrible enough for the Endless.

“What did you do to her?” Peter croaks. _ Now _ he can speak, when Elias has already broken down. 

Elias gives a valiant attempt at a dignified sniffle. 

“The grandmother?” He scoffs wetly. “Showed her how long it _ really _ took her son to die. I’ll not have her in my house again, I won’t stand for it.” 

Peter doesn’t think it’s her fault, not really. Not entirely. But that is not helpful to say, he knows Elias well enough to know that. 

“I missed you,” he says instead, and kisses his lover’s temple.

Jon begins to scream an hour later. No one sleeps that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol, non-graphic hypothetical child death. There is also brief misplaced blame, and a glass is broken in anger, but nothing I would consider domestic violence. Brief maybe ableism? A non-verbal character is briefly pressured to speak.


	19. Work History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snapshot of Jon and Gerry being boyfriends at each other

Arcatvist: Do you still paint? Oils or acrylic? 

Arcatvist: The shop by my flat is having a sale. If you want I could pick something up for you.

Big Titty Goth BF: either and yea sometimes

Big Titty Goth BF: thanks

Big Titty Goth BF: wait when did i tell you that

Arcatvist: You didn't.

Arcatvist: There was a statement. He asked M*ry about a painting she had and she said you painted it.

Big Titty Goth BF: gross

Big Titty Goth BF: also i cant believe you remembered

Arcatvist: I remembered everything from those statements.

Big Titty Goth BF: just mine?

Arcatvist: They were very important.

Big Titty Goth BF: wait

Arcatvist: What

Big Titty Goth BF: WAIT

Big Titty Goth BF: LMAO OH MY GOD

Arcatvist: SOP

Big Titty Goth BF: GAY PEOPLE REAL

Big Titty Goth BF: GAY PPL REAL AND ITS YOU

Arcatvist: This is bullying

Big Titty Goth BF: you had a crush on me lmao 

Arcatvist: I can’t believe you’ve done this. To me, your favorite boyfriend. 

Big Titty Goth BF: i dont remember saying that

Arcatvist: >:O 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an excuse I just thought this was funny don't look at me


End file.
